GENERATIONS; For an Information-Hungry Mom, 13 Is a Lucky Number

By ALICE ELLIOTT DARK

Published: June 4, 2006

MY son's bar-mitzvah-going year is almost over. There are a couple more invitations sitting in the kitchen, and then I'll be free. But not quite yet.

Chauffeuring back and forth to synagogues and women's clubs/hotels/catering halls is the latest task in a long career of suburban kid-driving that includes school drop-offs, sports practices and games, class trips and birthday parties. This is more interesting than it sounds, because for some unfathomable reason, when I'm operating a motor vehicle, kids forget I'm an actual human with ears and they speak freely. The driving is dull, but it's a great opportunity to pick up some intel.

The bar and bat mitzvah stints offer an added attraction. I glean some religion, and I get to see people's parties, albeit in their final moments.

Here's some of what I've learned this year from my back-seat informants:

The rabbi at the reform temple always says that you don't have a bar mitzvah, you become bar mitzvah simply by virtue of turning 13.

The rabbi at the Reconstructionist temple is a woman. The good thing about the service there is that you can show up at 11 when the kid's part is about to begin, and afterward they have tiny cups of wine set out that no one stops you from drinking.

The Conservative synagogue has the longest service, and the rabbi explains too much. Is there a fledgling teenager in town who doesn't know by now that the sh'ma is the declaration of faith?

Today's bat mitzvah is at a reform temple in the next town where the ushers glare at you if you're not there promptly at 10. I wake my son at 9.

''Why do I have to get up so early? It's Saturday.''

''Bat mitzvah, remember?''

''Can't I skip the service? You could drop me off later.''

''No service, no party, pal.''

Into the shower he goes.

In the next half-hour, calls come in from several of his friends who want rides. It's going to take some fancy mapping to make the rounds and still arrive at the temple on time. I accept the challenge and imagine the clever shortcuts I'll take. My route will be a thing of beauty. It should be displayed in an art gallery. Instead, it will be another of my unsung creations.

Meanwhile, my husband is helping our son get ready, no easy task. I can hear the complaints from downstairs. Why does he have to get so dressed up? Does God really care?

Eventually my boy appears, well put together and handsome. His good looks aren't matched by good habits, however; he won't eat breakfast. I slip a nutrition bar into his pocket and instruct him that if he gets hungry he should eat it in the temple's bathroom, not in the sanctuary. It occurs to me that proclaiming 13-year-old boys to be men is a bit of a stretch.

As I zip around town, we pick up the crew. They all pile in, wet hair gleaming, aftershave laid on thick enough to cement a wall. They perk up in one another's company and chatter away in their newly deep voices. Apparently at this particular bat mitzvah party there is going to be a cotton candy machine and a table where the kids can play Texas hold 'em. There's gossip, too. One of the boys is going to dump his girlfriend, who's hot but cold. And all the boys are looking forward to seeing one girl in particular.

''She's so hot she smokes like a chimney.''

''She's so hot the temple might catch fire.''

Too much information. I make each of them, one by one, repeat after me that he will behave like a gentleman.

At 5 p.m. I enter the banquet hall du jour and stand in the back with the other bluejeaned parent drivers. The D. J. is in the middle of one last game; prizes are being handed out like candy. I spot my kid. His shirt and tie have evaporated, and a Grateful Dead T-shirt has sprouted over his chest. The torturous shoes are gone, too. He's running around in socks, looking sweaty and happy. So much for representing the family with dignity.

I end up in the car with four kids, not exactly the ones I drove in the morning, but reasonable facsimiles. They dish the party. The best part, it seems, were the chicken nuggets. These were unusually good, and the fries were so crisp! They ate so much, they thought they were going to throw up while they were dancing.

Soon everyone has been dropped off, and I'm alone with my son. The car still works its magic and we talk easily. I ask him if he wishes he'd had a bar mitzvah. I'm not Jewish, but my husband is, and we offered him the opportunity. His answer is still no. The presents are good, but all that Hebrew School? Forget it.

Then he asks if I wish he'd had one. I say I'd have liked the opportunity to stand up in front of family and friends and describe how great he is. I expect him to reject this possibility -- too embarrassing -- but, as kids can, he surprises me.

''Yeah, that part's good.''

I don't so much as breathe. I have to pretend he didn't actually speak to me, so he won't regret it. There are moments when it's appropriate to draw proud attention to the fact that your children are growing up, and there are moments when that knowledge is yours alone.

After enough time has passed for amnesia to set in, I ask him what his plans are for the evening. Apparently a group is going to the movies.